


Drunk on You

by lolo313



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Angst, Car Accidents, First Time, M/M, Wincest - Freeform, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-17
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-25 03:37:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9801035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lolo313/pseuds/lolo313
Summary: The beer, the women. They're to help Dean forget.





	

 

            Her name’s Candi. Or Katie. Something short and girly, with a hard _k_ that forced his tongue down as it shot out the back of his throat. She’s blonde—they’re always blonde, or red-headed, or some cotton-candy color. _Pink_ , once. But not brunette. Never brunette.

            Dean meets her in a bar. Doesn’t matter which. After enough acres of asphalt and enough whiskey they all look the same. They have that in common with the women inside them. Forgettable. That’s what Dean looks for. A face he’d never remember.

            It never takes long to spot her. An hour, tops, if he doesn’t clock her the second he walks in the door. Type of pretty desperate for attention, with just enough leg showing. Alone or with friends, doesn’t matter. Dean knows as soon as their eyes drinks him in, sees that spark of desire, sudden flash of white between two cherry lips. _Bingo_.

            Dean takes his time, stalks them like a bobcat. Orders a whiskey and drinks it slow. Lets the pissshitvomit smell soak into his jacket, puts his feet up on the opposite booth. Relaxes like he hasn’t just driven 300 miles after putting a bullet between some unholy sonofabitch’s eyes. Like he might actually be somebody who can enjoy a drink without hoping it will numb some raw wound inside you. Like this isn’t just another pit stop on an endless road and they might actually get to catch their breath, for once. Like he won’t go to bed tonight, curled up against this thing inside him, starving but not for food.

            He sees her over by the pool table. Not playing, but watching. Laughing at some douchebag’s joke. She’s faking, Dean can tell, even from here. _Good_. So’s he.

            When he saunters up, two beers clinking in his hand, she melts, putty in his hand. Her would be suitor huffs at the brush off. _Poor bastard_ —probably would have enjoyed himself too. Not that Dean won’t, but only in the way a drowning man enjoys air. He offers her a drink, which she accepts. And there it is, that smile, flash of teeth, hair stroked back behind her ear. _Easy money_.

            They talk bullshit. She’s in nursing school and she wants to help people— _have you every felt that, that urge to save someone—_ and Dean’s gotta laugh, it’s so funny. He feeds her the same story he feeds ‘em all. Details shift around, soldier on leave, cop, travelling salesman. It’s the nugget at the heart of it that matters, the point he drives home. Leaving tomorrow. Only here for the night. No promises. No strings attached.

            Never takes more than three rounds. Dean does it one. When he asks out the side of his mouth, too busy checking the score on the TV to turn his head, if she wants another beer, she leans across the table, breasts pushed up and framed by her arms. Dean can smell her perfume, artificial strawberry. “Why don’t we get out of here?”

            The Impala’s leather cracks and crinkles beneath them. It’s tight, but they manage, Dean braced against the headrest, breath fogging up the back window. It’s August, hot, sweat on his lower back clinging to his shirt. Katie, Candi, presses her cherry mouth to the side of his neck, voice gone all breathy and high-pitched. She’s got her skirt hitched up round her middle. Dean slips a finger inside; it comes out wet. She works at the buckle of his belt, teeth tugging on the lope of his ear.

            It’s quick and dirty, all open-mouth kisses and swears. Perfunctory, even, and Dean has to wonder where he heard that word, and then he remembers. Quizzing Sam for the SAT’s. His stomach does a funny little twist, and Dean buries himself deep as he’ll go, and the woman with the pretty but forgettable face arches off the seat, nails like claws down his back, and screams _yesyesyes_.

            After is hard. Sometimes they want to cuddle, want Dean to wrap them in his arms and lay their head on his chest, tell them that they’re pretty and special and that he’ll always remember them. Sweetheart stuff. He’s yet to figure out a polite way of kicking them out soon as the deed is done. This one’s not so bad. A little heavy petting and a slip of his tongue and she’s fixing her bra and combing her fingers through her hair. She smiles sweet and pecks Dean on the cheek. He watches her hips sway off back into the bar.

            Dean doesn’t want to follow her inside, but he can’t go home yet either. He’s loose, muscles relaxed, the tension gone out of his neck, but he’s keyed up, a nervous energy shaking his leg. That’s not good, it wouldn’t do to show up at the motel like this. He’s afraid of what he might do.

            So he stops by a little liquor store, buys a six-pack, which he sets on the seat beside him as he cruises through country roads. He rolls down the window, the wind and the radio competing in a shouting match so loud Dean can’t hear himself think, which is the whole point. He crushes the can and tosses it onto the side of the road, reaches over for another, snaps back the tab and drinks down that first heady sip of fizz.

            A cloud pulled over the moon. The impala’s headlights needed replacing. Something caught the corner of Dean’s eye. All of these, excuses. He never saw the deer dash out, not till it was too late. The night fills with the scream of his tires, the sick _thud_ of its body hitting the fender, the hood, cracking the windshield before rolling onto and off of the roof. Dean spins round as the car brakes, skidding half onto the shoulder. His head smacks the steering wheel.

            There’s an awful noise and Dean fumbles with the radio for a solid minute before he realizes it’s off and that sound he’s hearing is his own heart beating in his ears. Then pain blossoms across his forehead and his voice goes blurry. He kicks his way out of the car, cradling his head. His fingers come back red tipped, the gash on his forehead trickles down into his eye. He wobbles on his feet, leaning heavy against the impala. When he sees the front he swears. It’s all cosmetic, but the damage is substantial, metal all gnarled and torn up so the engine pokes through. Not to mention the windshield, spider-webbed cracked.

            He sees it, laying the middle of the road. Its legs are pointed away from him, and from here it just looks like its sleeping. But when he walks around to the front, he sees its insides all strung out like a fucked up Christmas. The term _cheese grater_ comes to mind, along with the image of raw hamburger helper. Dean doubles over and hurls between his boots.

            He chucks the rest of the beer before heading back. He’s not numb, but shaken. His hands won’t quit long enough for him to get the key in the ignition. He wants to be home. Wants to see Sam.

            He sits in the motel parking lot for over half an hour. Lets himself sober the rest of the way up. He spits on an old fast food napkin and dabs at his cut in the rearview mirror, cleans it up as best he can. The time keeps ticking away, the hour growing later, and he knows soon Sam will start to worry, if he hasn’t already. For a long time he stands in front of the motel room door, waiting, jingling the keys. The lock turning sounds like gunshot.

            “Dean!” Sam’s on him the second he steps foot inside, overhead lights on too bright. Something blares from the TV, local news. “Dean, where the hell were you?”

            “Out.” Dean brushes past his brother, flicks off the TV. There’s a half-drank bottle of beer on the nightstand. Dean snatches it up, takes a swig of lukewarm backwash. “What’s it matter?”

            “What’s it matter?” Sam huffs out a joyless laugh, arms on his hips. Scolding him, like his mom. Or his wife. Dean downs another mouthful of tepid beer. “What happened to your forehead?” He moves closer, reaches a hand out, but Dean’s too quick, he’s a snake, darting out from beneath his touch. He moves to the closet, shrugs off his jacket.

            “I hit it. I’m fine.” Beneath the rattle of hangars Dean hears the curtains ruffle, then Sam swearing softly under his breath.

            “Did you get in an accident? Dean,” one-two, one-two, quick steps and fuck those long legs but Sam is on him before he can throw up a proper defense, “Dean, look at me.” A hand on his shoulder spins him round.

            “Get the fuck off me!” Dean bats Sam away and his voice comes out louder than he meant. He’s drunker still than he thought. This is dangerous. Liquor makes him numb, yes, but it also makes him slow. And Sam’s fast, quicksilver, like fire. Dean’ll burn. “I said I’m fine.”

            “You’re _bleeding_ ,” Sam’s close, too close, his face hovering above Dean’s, trying to catch his eye, “and the Impala is fucked—”

            “Watch your mouth.” Dean tries to shimmy past, but Sam steps in his path. The room’s suddenly too small, the space too tight, air too thin. Dean doesn’t like feeling like an animal, least of all a caged one.

            “You have to tell me what happened.” Dean brings the bottle to his lips but Sam snatches it away, a parent depriving a child of a cookie. So Dean throws a tantrum. He fakes Sam out, feints left, grabs the bottle back when he’s not looking. Then he hurls it against the wall. The glass shatters with a sound like New Years. A stain bleeds slowly down the wall. The silence after is crystal thin. Dean can hear Sam breathing, all flared nostrils and corded muscle waiting to explode.

            Sam pushes him. Not hard, but hard enough. Dean stumbles back till he slams into the wall. His insides rattle out a chuckle, but that just has Sam grabbing his shirt, pulling him forward to smash him back again. It hurts this time, the air leaving him in one big rush. The big, terrible emptiness, the _Ican’tIcan’tIcan’tbreahte_ feeling in his chest should scare him, but he’s used to it by now. Used to that aching gnaw whenever he slides into bed alone five feet from the only thing in the whole world that matters. It’s the space left by words unspoken, the weight of a heavy heart. Sam’s still holding onto his shirt so hard his knuckles go white, and he’s got Dean lifted into the air so only his tiptoes are touching carpet. Their faces are close enough Dean can see the freckles beneath Sam’s left eye. Can smell that mingled scent of sweat and dime store deodorant. This is dangerous territory, a minefield, and Dean hasn’t got a map.

            Sam lets him go, lets him drop to the floor. Takes a step back and looks at him like he’s some kind of fungus, newly discovered, which is more or less how Dean feels. Dean doesn’t try and stop him when he grabs his coat off the chair and heads out the door. It’s late when he comes back, sometime after three in the morning. Dean had long since gone to bed, but he didn’t sleep a wink till he heard the bed creak beneath familiar weight. He doesn’t close his eyes, back turned to Sam’s bed, till he hears his brother’s breathing even out. Even then all he sees behind his eyelids is Sam.

 

            The mechanic says it’ll take a couple days to fix up the impala. “Crying shame someone would treat her like this.” Dean nods and fights back a gag as he hands over a wad of hard hustled money. Then he books the motel for another night. Sam’s hunched over some newspapers, flipping for leads, but good luck finding a hunt within walking distance.

            The day swelters, mid-August, and not a cloud in the goshdarn sky to stop the sun from melting the rubber off tires. Dean’s not sure if the A/C’s broke or if the motel even has any. Opening the windows don’t help. There’s sweat coming out of every inch of him.

            And they ran out of beer.

            Sam doesn’t talk, not beyond the occasional _huh_ , under his breath and muffled by the pen sticking out of his mouth. Dean never thought he’d envy a Bic, but then Sam starts rolling the cap over the plump of his bottom lip. He’s got to get out of this room.

            Nothing worth going to is open, so Dean kicks around the lobby till the bellboy ask him—for the fifth time—if he needs something. Sam’s still at it when he comes back with Chinese, only restaurant that would deliver, and even then only to two blocks over. They eat in silence, the fatty smell of lo mein thick enough to clog their arteries and the vents. The tap water comes out warm and fails to wash down the sweet, brown sauce his broccoli is swimming in. When Dean shrugs on his coat and heads for the door, Sam follows him, hot on his heels.

            “What do you think you’re doing?” Dean’s half out the door, hand on the knob, and Sam’s fisting his arms through his jacket sleeves.

            “What do you think _you_ ’ _re_ doing?” Sam stuffs his hands in his pockets, watches Dean, waits.

            In the end there’s no use arguing. Sam follows him to the bar, shuffling his feet a few paces behind Dean. It’s rundown and ratty, all torn cushions and chipped glasses, but it’s the only place within a mile that serves anything harder than lemonade. Dean orders two beers, and when Sam refuses his he drinks them both. There’s poor fair, women-wise, and Dean’s not sure he could perform with Sam scowling at him from across the booth. Sam’s got eyes for nobody but him, and it makes Dean’s skin feel weird. Paper thin and translucent.

            Around beer number four a group of locals walk in, three women and a couple guys. One of them, auburn headed, smiles at him as she walks up to the bar, orders a whiskey sour. Dean fails to make room on his side of the booth when she saunters over, cause he knows Sam’s too polite to keep her standing, and soon she’s pressed up close to him, thigh to thigh. Dean excuses himself, goes to the bathroom and throws up into the toilet. He washes his mouth out and splashes a handful of cold water over his face.

            Back at the booth Sam’s talking bout Stanford, and whoever she is has her hand on Sam’s knee. Something bitter works its way back up Dean’s throat, but he’s got no one but himself to blame. He doesn’t sit, but leans across the table to grab his beer.

            “Why don’t I give you two a little privacy?” Dean ignores the pained, _fuck you_ look his brother throws him.

            The rest of the ladies are nice enough. Dean singles one out at random, a buxom blonde with too-white teeth who laughs at whatever he says, even when he’s not trying to be funny. She talks mostly, Dean just nodding, working his way through his sixth beer. His mind’s gone fuzzy, cotton-headed, and he keeps trying to watch Sam in the reflection of the broken TV screen, so he doesn’t catch it the first time when she says, “Wanna get out of here?”

            “I’m sorry,” Dean looks into her eyes for the first time—dull browns—wiggles a finger in his ear, “what was that?”

            “I said,” she steps up real close, hips between his splayed knees, bird-thin hand on his arm, “you wanna get out of here?”

            And _fuck_ Dean does, because whoever he left Sam with has been trailing circles on the back of his neck for the last twenty minutes, and if Dean had to watch her kiss him he’ll punch something. Someone. Dean downs the dregs of his beer, stands up, sways a little as the room settles back into place. He’s paying up the tab when Sam grabs his shoulder and leans in close to whisper in his ear.

            “We need to go. Now.” It’s the sense of command, not urgency, that grabs his attention. Dean turns to look at him, and when his faces finally melt back into one he can tell Sam’s pissed. All pinched eyebrows, flared nostrils, and twitching jaw. He grabs Dean’s arm and hauls him outside, making some lame excuses to the women they leave behind. He pushes Dean in the direction of their motel.

            There on a stretch of road with nothing but corn on either side, stars like spilled salt across black velvet. Sam’s marching along ahead, Dean straggling behind, limbs liquor tired and slow. Every few feet Sam stops to glare back at him while he takes his time to catch up. There bout halfway home when Dean veers off onto the shoulder, and it takes Sam a couple seconds to notice, so he’s gotta double back, half-jogging.

            “What’re you doing?” Dean doesn’t have to look to know Sam’s got his arms crossed in front of his chest, pinch, prissy scowl on his face.

            “What’s it look like, Sammy?” Dean flicks open his zipper, pulls his cock out and starts pissing on a stalk. “Nature calls.” Dean can hear Sam fuming over the rush of his stream.

            “This funny to you?” Dean figures the question’s rhetorical, so he doesn’t answer as he flicks off the last few drops and tucks himself back into his jeans, but Sam keeps right on him when he stumbles back onto the road. “This all just some big joke to you?”

            “You see me laughing?” Dean tries for serious, but Sam’s hair all mussed out of place by the night wind, and he’s backlit by the moon, and a smile can’t help but tug at Dean’s mouth. Sam steps up close, real close, so Dean can see the bloodshot whites of his eyes. He grabs two fistfuls of Dean’s shirt and shakes him, hard, just once.

            “This might be just some big, fucking dumb joke to you, Dean, but not to me. I don’t—” Sam’s voice shoots high, goes opera-singer thin before cracking, wet and sloppy with the tears pooling in the corner of his eyes. “There’s nobody else, Dean. Not Dad, not Mom, not Jessica. Alright? You’re all I got left. You can’t just—” A sob cuts him off, caught in his throat, choking out the words.

            “Hey, hey now, it’s okay.” Dean shushes him, like Sam’s suddenly twelve again, hands gone all gentle up to the side of his face, but Sam bats them away, shoves him back.

            “It’s not fucking _okay_ , Dean. What’re you running from?” Sam’s looking at him, really looking, and Dean feels naked despite his clothes. His spit goes down bitter, throat tight around the swallow. “Is it me? Am I so bad, Dean?”

            “No.” Dean heart breaks, tears itself in two, to see tears streaming down Sam’s face. “God no.”

            “Then what, Dean? How you gunna wreck the car and almost get yourself killed? You’re too fucking smart to be so fucking dumb.”

            “I…” Dean can’t look at him, can only stare at the empty space beyond his left shoulder, “I made a mistake, it was an accident.”

            “Bullshit.” Sam spits the word out like venom. “Dean Winchester doesn’t make mistakes, not like that. And the girl,” Sam stabs a finger into the air, pointed back the way they came, “in the bar. Why’re you trying to get rid of me? Dean, I…say the word and I’ll go, okay? Back to Stanford or wherever, just…” Sam’s eyes catch the moonlight and glisten, milky and wet. “I can’t lose you too, Dean. And if I gotta leave to keep you from killing yourself—”

            “No.” Dean grabs his brother’s hand, closes the gap between them, till their standing chest to chest. “No. Please don’t leave me.” Dean snakes a hand up to cup Sam’s cheek, thumb stroking wet skin. “Don’t ever leave me.”

            Dean can’t say who leans in first, if he does, pressing onto his tip toes, or if it’s Sam, bending his neck down, or if it’s the mutual gravity of their mouths drawing them in till they collide like comets, all sparks and stardust. Something in Dean’s chest, some awful, terrible ache he’s lived with for so long he doesn’t remember what it’s like not to want, not to hurt, breaks like eggshell, warm yolk running down to his fingertips when Sam’s lips part against his own, hand curling around the back of his head. He tastes like spearmint, like their mom’s lemonade, like dirt and motor oil. He tastes like home.

            The blare of a passing truck’s horn breaks them from their reverie. Dean jumps back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. His heart won’t quit and his fingers shake. He wants to run, to where and from what he can’t even say anymore. All the masks have been torn away; he’s naked and exposed, raw like a fresh-picked scab.

            “Sam…Sammy, I, I didn’t—” Dean’s tongue can’t keep up with his words, stumbling over whatever lie lays within reach, and he’s looking at the road, at the corn, up at the stars, anywhere but at his brother. “We shouldn’t—”

            “Yeah,” Sam says, grabbing Dean’s shirt, pulling him towards him, making him look at him, “we should.” Growing up, all the miles he’d put on the road, he’d seen his share of gas stations. Among the confections, the microwave hot dogs, what stands out most were the Harlequin romance novels, helpless, big breasted women, pages dripping with overly-dramatic sap. He’d made a life of hunting spirits, and he’d never heard something as unbelievable as someone taking your breath away. But oh, how wrong he’d been. Because when Sam kisses him again, when there’s not a shadow of a doubt that he wants this, that it’s not just the dark, twisted part of Dean that he’s tried to bury under gallons of beer and forget in the backseat with pretty, nameless women, he does it. Sam takes his breath away.

            Dean’s lips still move against empty air for a second before he realizes Sam’s pulled back, fingers tracing lazy circles onto the nape of his neck. Their foreheads knock together and Dean counts the freckles in his brother’s eyes. Wordlessly, Sam joins their hands, leading Dean off down the road.

            They save the acrobatics till they get back to the motel room. As soon as the door is locked, Sam’s on him, all six foot something of him pressed up against lean, Kansas muscle like he’s trying to push Dean clear through the wall. They’re paper thin, and Dean’s sure people two states over can hear them, but fuck it if in that moment he could care less. They end up on the bed somehow, Sam on top of him. Dean grinds into the weight of his brother, slowly crushing him, the air in his chest tight against the squeeze of Sam. He’s hungry for it, ravished, pulling off Dean’s shirt to palm the hard ridge of his belly. He’s seen Sam naked hundreds, thousands of times, but the sight of him now, freckled shoulders and hard muscle from a too-cruel life, hits him like a freight train. His eyes roam freely for the first time in his life and he’s drunk on more than liquor. He wants to kiss every inch he’s ever denied himself.

            “What’re you still doing dressed?” And the question, whispered against the shell of his ear, accompanied by a swift swipe of tongue, has him scrambling out of his jeans like they’re on fire.

            Before, with the women, Dean never cared too much about making them feel good. He wasn’t an animal, but he’d left more than one unsatisfied lover in his wake, more interested in numbing the awful ache in his belly than winning over hearts. It’s different, with Sam. He wants so badly to make every touch, every kiss, perfect, worthy of…whatever this is. He hovers on the edge of hesitation, unsure what to do with his hands, as Sam sprawls out, limbs jutting off the edges of the twin-sized bed.

            “Hey,” Sam whispers, sitting up to tug Dean gently back onto the mattress, “come here.” He lets Sammy pull him down, lets himself be wrapped in Sam’s arms, lets himself suck a burnt cherry kiss beneath Sam’s collarbone. When Sam wraps a hand around his cock, Dean sucks in a breath through clench teeth, lets it out slow as he bucks into Sam’s touch. “Easy now.” Sam holds him in place with a hand to the back of his head, fingers tight in his hair. “Take it slow.”

            “I—” Dean bits into the meat of Sam’s shoulder, hard enough to leave indents as he cants his hips into Sam’s fist. “I can’t.” Sam takes his hand away, and Dean would never admit to it but he whines at the lack till Sam kisses him quiet.

            “Do you wanna…?”

            “ _Yes_ ,” Dean moans into Sam’s mouth, because he’s never wanted anything more in his entire life. With a little rearranging, Dean finds himself on his back, legs hitched up into his chest, hugging the back of his knees. Sam slots in between his hips, arms parentheses around the afterthought of Dean’s head. His hair halos his face, the naked bulb dangling from the ceiling blocked by Sam, who seems lit from within. Dean’s breath catches in his throat as Sam lowers down to kiss him, slow and smooth as whiskey. Dean’s drunk on him.

            As Sam grabs lube from his bag—Dean has to stop himself from asking why Sam has some, with whom he’d been using it, must stop his mind from spiraling away from him—an anxious anticipation mounts in his belly, leaving his thoughts bloated. He’d never…it was easier, with women. His thighs shook till Sam slid a hand, strong and calloused, up to the summit of his crotch, thumb rubbing over his hipbone.

            “We don’t have to if—”

            “No.” It comes out hoarse and chocked, Dean coughing into his shoulder, mouth suddenly gone bone dry. “No. I, I want to.” Nothing’s truer. Dean screws his eyes shut as two cool fingers circle his hole, the lube glacial next to his enflamed skin. Sam follows a trail of kisses from Dean’s shoulder to his jaw, pressing a finger gently inside till he squeezes tight around his knuckle. Dean sucks in a sharp breath of air, feels his heartbeat in his whole body.

            Over what feels like hours, Sam works him open, adding one, then two fingers, drawing them slowly in and out, till Dean’s thighs are quaking and his cock dribbles precum onto the dark hair of his stomach. Sam crooks a finger and drags into over Dean’s sweet spot, so his head lolls back in a moan and his cock pulses enthusiastically. Sam’s sucked a plum kiss onto the side of his neck, the flesher tender and raw from his teeth. Dean’s vision goes blurry, hands balled into fists in the sheets, and he’s not sure how much more he can take.

            “Please.” His voice rasps out of his throat, wanton and broken. “ _Please_. You’ve got to…” The words catch. He swallows hard. “I…I need you to.”

            “Anything.” Sam pulls his hand away and Dean shudders at the loss, mouth pursed in a pout, but then Sam’s grabbing his legs, pushing them up and back into his chest, scooting forward on his knees to kneel before Dean. “Ready?”

            Dean nods, then gasps at the press of Sam, his body parting to allow his brother entry. It’s a stretch and burn, and he grits his teeth to keep from crying out. Sam peppers his face with kisses, whispers softly into his ear. Dean grabs Sam’s hips and bites his nails into the tender mounds of his ass. When he bottoms out, Dean stuffed to the hilt, he lets out a low, slow breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding.

            “You okay?”

            “Yeah.” Dean nods his head against Sam’s shoulder, arms taunt. “Just, just give me a minute.” He bites his bottom lips till Sam sucks it into his mouth. He snakes a hand between them to tug on Dean’s dick, and he moans, shaky, into his brother’s mouth.

            “Good?” Sam asks with a laugh.

            “Real good.” Dean shudders, arches his low back off the bed as Sam gives him a squeeze.

            “More?”

            “Lots more.”

            Sam starts moving, little experimental rolls of his hips, only pulling out an inch or two before shoving himself back in. Every time their bodies come up flush Dean breathes out a tiny moan, eyes rolled back up into his head. Soon Sam’s thrusting into him, sweat beading at his hairline and rolling down his back. Dean nearly cries it feels so good, body squeezed around the fullness of Sam inside him. He fists a handful of Sam’s hair, pulls him down to claw at his lips, biting and sucking, tongue busy with the taste of him. Sam pulls out and snaps back in, hips smacking, balls slapping against Dean’s ass. He smashes into him, head of his dick over his prostate, and Dean swears filthy.

            “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” Sam laughs, nibbles on the dangling lobe of Dean’s ear, but Dean’s mind’s too fogged in the miasma of musk to think straight, let alone respond. His skin’s electrified, every nerve firing as Sam glides a hand up his belly, squeezes his chest, fingers tweaking a nipple.

            Sam ruts into him, wild and wet, till Dean’s vision blurs. When he opens his eyes, Sam’s face is hovering above his, hair slicked to his sweat-stained forehead, tendrils gracing his flushed cheeks. In that moment, Dean is so full of love he’s afraid his chest will burst and his heart fly out and away. His body tightens around his brother’s cock, balls pulling up tight against his body, as a strangled moan digs its way out of his throat. He comes, thick, ropey spurts all over his stomach, and his mind goes blank with bliss.

            He comes back to himself with the sensation of Sam’s off kilter thrusts as he loses the rhythm in the madness of his own orgasm. He’s buried deep in Dean when he spills his load, the warmth oddly familiar as Sam coats Dean’s insides. Dean wants to tell Sammy everything, every twisted want that’s ever passed through his heart, but Sam’s kissing him, tongue lazy against the inside of his mouth as he slips out of Dean’s body with a slick _pop_. The sudden emptiness cuts Dean to the bone, but Sam flops onto the mattress beside him, wrapping Dean in his arms as Dean had done countless times when Sam barely came up to his chin.

            The quiet of the motel room is unsettling, broken only by their mouths’ ragged steps as they try to catch their breath. Sam’s fingers waltz over the knobs of Dean’s spine, his eyes shut in exhausted rapture. Dean watches his eyelashes, listens to the slow rise and fall of his chest. Sam is Dean’s favorite movie—no matter how many times he sees him, there’s always some new discovery lurking in the curve of his hip, in the crux of his elbow, some mole or scar or turn of the wrist Dean had never noticed before. He falls in love with each one of them, spending nights dreaming of pressing his lips to every inch of Sam he’d never before been able to call his own. But now…

            “Figure we can walk to the diner for some breakfast before we check on the car.” Sam mumbles, more to himself, as he reaches out over Dean to switch off the light. He tugs a blanket up over their bodies, draping Dean’s shoulders. Dean knows he should get up, get showered, that he should not let his brother’s arm encircle his waist, holding him tight against his body. Dean knows this can never happen again at the same time he knows it will, knows it’ll never stop happening, now.

            For a long time Dean lies awake, listening to Sam sleep. He’s hot beneath the covers, next to the furnace of his brother. The cum on his stomach has cooled and gone tacky, something slick dribbles down the back of his thigh. His cock presses against Sam. Through a gap in the curtains Dean spies a sliver of moon, ghostly against the midnight blue of the sky. In his mind he runs through everything he’s ever killed, every creature unearthed from nightmares that he’s put back in the ground. How he’d never hesitated, even for a second.

            Dean shivers, from cold or fear he would not say.


End file.
